Читать книгу Circus - Irma Venter - Страница 17

Johannesburg, July 1989

“Here.” The Dutchman leans over and places a cup of tea in front of me. He adds milk and too much sugar. I watch his long, thin fingers as he stirs the tea. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

I stare at the cheap white china, the chip in the ear of the cup. How is tea going to make me feel better?

My dad folds his lean body into the chair next to mine, pushes the spectacles back up his nose. My mom gazes at her hands resting on the table, as if they don’t belong to her body.

The silence grows.

At last her eyes turn to me. “I’m … I’m sorry about Peet.” Her voice sounds creaky and old, unaccustomed to use.

“Sorry?” My voice rises. “How does sorry help?”

“Adriana. Meisje … no.” The Dutchman’s eyes are pleading: Stay calm.

He crosses his legs, the top foot swinging up and down in its usual restless way, betraying what is going on inside him.

He’s right. It’s no good upsetting my mom, taking out my anger on her.

I stroke her hand, small and pale under mine. “Sorry. Thanks.”

She nods, gives me a brief smile.

I sip the overly sweet tea, look through the kitchen window at the garden, where the feeble sun is battling to dispel the late-winter cold. The soil must have been hard when they dug the grave, everything is so dry. A little rain would have made it easier.

Not that there was much to bury. Constable Petrus Johannes van Vuuren, aged twenty, died in a bomb blast. A limpet mine, at a shop where he made a quick stop for something to eat.

The Dutchman and I went there immediately after we heard the news. A man with a short haircut, dusty brown shoes and a white short-sleeved shirt said he was from the Security Branch. It’s the ANC’s work, he said, motioning with his cigarette at the blood, the shattered glass, the warped bits of steel scattered everywhere.

Bloody terrorists, he muttered under his breath.

The Dutchman snorted at the back of his throat, turned and walked away, his mouth pale. I didn’t even know he liked Peet, though I do remember how upset he was when Peet’s dad forced him to join the police.

Peet’s dad didn’t shed a tear, not even at the graveside. Neither did Peet’s brothers. Except for the youngest, who sobbed in his mother’s arms.

Sandra also cried. Non-stop.

She’s pregnant. Her mom doesn’t know yet. Nor does Peet’s family.